Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.

I have recently spent too much time thinking about Hair, not the musical, but both those on my head and those found on other parts of my self.  My head hair needs a cutting and as much as I love the magic fingers of Anne Marie at Bangz, she’s recently raised her prices to $80 plus a tip and I’m feeling not so flush these days.  I will probably succumb anyway because she’s really great at her job and I could use some extra help.

It is at these hair raised times, about once every eight to ten weeks, that I confront my mortality in the form of the stray grays that keep emerging.  I have been blessed with the late gray gene from my mother and even at the age of 57 have predominantly dark brown in the mix.  Some days I feel that my grays are earned, slim badges of a life lived fully.  Other days, particularly after a sleepless night, I just see a reflection of an older much more tired me framed by those very same grays.  To color or not to color, that is the question.

Not a good look for anyone.

I’ve experimented from time to time with a variety of hair transformation products.  A few years ago I added gold highlights.  In retrospect, a decision made in a moment of weakness at a new salon, leaving me feeling and looking like Mrs. Roper…i.e. not a good choice.  I’ve used henna rinses in bold cranberry – a slick 70’s disco inspired look – as well as black – an 80’s ethnic inspired look – but never felt comfortable or ultimately more attractive either way.

Occasionally I’ll ask my husband if he thinks I should cover the gray but he’s grown too clever to fall into that trap, even when I say “ But you have to look at me, I don’t.”  He has learned that the only safe answer is “Whatever makes you happy, honey.”

For men, the hairstory is much more traumatic. They may morph form Justin Bieber to Uncle Fester by the time they hit 30.  These poor men never get to have their Silver Fox moment.  They are faced with the dismay found in the drain, that tangled unseemly mess left behind after morning rituals and a great hot shower.  Men’s hair may also transmigrate to other body parts choosing to relocate to more exotic locales like ear lobes and shoulder haunches.

Even we women may on occasion find a stray hair or two or three, as in the hair on your chinny chin chin.  There are also those charming moments when your innocent toddler may remark on these, including the adorable, “ Mommy, you have a spider coming out of your nose!” Thankfully said in private, now shared shamelessly with my readers.

But women are expected to do something about this irregularity using waxes and potions, painful and stinky to remind us of our own mortality as if the stray intruders weren’t reminders enough.

I googled Silver Fox

When I was younger and more unitoned, I had what I’ll call my hair-related trauma.  Being single through the Eighties had it’s advantages ---unencumbered by a partner’s needs or career fluctuations, baby’s poo or extended family dramas ( although my nuclear group had more than it’s fair share…) -- gave me a certain freedom and nonchalance.  I met lots of potential partners, enjoyed their company for a time and then moved on for reasons both real and imagined. 

One such coupling included a successful young man with a great apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and an insouciance brought on by the sale of his business to a Fortune 500 company for over $10 million dollars by the time he was 30.  He was quite a dashing character, tall dark and handsome and well groomed and mannered.  We had several enjoyable dinners together at wonderful restaurants and one night returned to his apartment to express our mutual admiration.  Sharing a chilled split of champagne on his terrace as the sun set behind the amazing Manhattan skyline, we snuggled and kissed in brisk Autumn air.  As our affections became more fully realized, we moved into his living room for both comfort and privacy’s sake.  At this point, disheveled, he excused himself to use the bathroom.  When he returned, he was missing something.  Yes, his hair was gone.  He had transformed from Alan Alda to Yul Brenner without so much as a by your leave. 

Now I am not typically left speechless or at a loss for words, as this blog frequently demonstrates, but I was Flabbergasted!  Dumbstruck! I think first because I had no idea that the hair was not his to begin with and second, my next thought was – what else is removable?   I readjusted my habiliments, stammered out an excuse about an early morning meeting I had forgotten about and hightailed it out of there.

Not because he was bald, in fact I find bald men attractive – always have – but what kind of person would just spring this on someone else?  Where did he keep it in the bathroom?  Did he have more than one?  How did he wash it?  My mind was aflutter with possibilities.

So on this Halloween Weekend, when little goblins and monsters are ringing for tricks and treats,   consider the hair raising adventures of this Pop Culture Diva living the single life in the Eighties in the city where everything is possible.